The ride to the hospital blurred into fragments—sirens screaming, the medic calling out vitals, Sarah’s strained breathing counting seconds between contractions or spasms or something worse.
I sat beside her, holding her hand, but my thumb kept brushing against my phone screen.
That second name.
Dr. Melissa Crane.
And what Sarah had labeled her:
EMERGENCY IF DIANE INTERFERES
My stomach turned.
“Sarah,” I said quietly, leaning close so only she could hear, “what envelope?”
Her lips trembled. For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer.
Then she whispered, barely audible over the siren:
“Test results.”
My chest tightened.
“What kind of test results?”
Her eyes opened just enough to meet mine.
“The baby’s.”
At the hospital, everything moved fast.
Too fast.
Doctors. Nurses. Questions. Machines.
Sarah was wheeled away almost immediately, a team surrounding her like a wall I couldn’t break through.
“Possible placental abruption,” I heard someone say.
“Fetal distress.”
“Prep for emergency C-section.”
The words didn’t feel real.
They felt like something happening to someone else.
I stood in the hallway, useless, still holding my phone.
It buzzed again.
This time, I answered.
“What did you do?” I said, before she could speak.
There was a pause on the other end.
Then my mother’s voice, controlled, composed, like she was discussing dinner plans.
“Michael, you need to calm down.”
“No,” I snapped. “You were here. She said you told her not to call 911.”
“She was overreacting,” Diane replied. “Pregnancy is messy. Emotional. I was trying to keep her from embarrassing herself—and you.”
I laughed once. It sounded wrong.
“She’s in surgery.”
Silence.
Just for a second.
Then: “That’s unfortunate.”
